


No Longer Alone

by missilemuse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missilemuse/pseuds/missilemuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had always feared that he would never have friends. He had always expected to be alone… SPOILERS for 2.01 and 2.02!</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Longer Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Sherlockbbc kinkmeme (link- http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=79673733#t79673733), so credit for inspiration goes to the OP… Please review!

“What are you reading?”

He had expected the intrusion sooner. It had been raining heavily since morning, and Sherlock was like a cat when it came to rain. Just as Mycroft had expected, hiding in the attic hadn’t proved much of a deterrent. 

Mycroft tilted the book so the five-year old could see the title – ‘ **On Generation and Corruption** ’

Sherlock could read very well for a five year old, very well for a ten year old in fact but he wrinkled his nose at the title. “Sounds boring!” he declared.

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “Well, it is a bit dry. However, the man who wrote it was very brilliant and thought of many clever things far ahead of his time. That makes it interesting.”

Sherlock crawled into his brother’s lap so he could see the inside of the book. “He sounds like us.”

Well, modesty had never been one of their traits.

He sat quietly for about ten minutes taking in the print of the book, which was the longest Mycroft had seen his brother hold himself still.

“Mycroft… did he have friends?”

Mycroft swallowed as he looked down on the top of his little brother’s head. But Sherlock hadn’t looked at him, as he asked the question. “Why do you ask that?”

“It’s just…if he was so different from the people of his time, they would have had a tough time understanding him. And how can anyone be friends with someone they don’t understand?”

Mycroft found that the lump in his throat had grown larger. Sherlock was five and he was already rationalising a lifetime of loneliness. He put down the book, gripped his brother by the waist to shift him on one side so that he could face him. 

“Will it help if I told you that I know exactly how you feel?”

Sherlock smiled in that way he had, which made him feel like an idiot. “I know you do, Mycroft. You are like me, after all.”

“So there’s a major difference,” Mycroft continued. “When I was your age, I was indeed completely alone. But you don’t have to think that, see?”

Sherlock looked at him considering, then nodded before adding, “I wish I could have come along sooner.”

Mycroft wished he could hug his brother, but they had never been a demonstrative family. So he settled for squeezing Sherlock’s hand before replying, “Better late than never…” 

The brothers sat together, taking solace in each other’s existence, as the rain hammered the rooftop.

***

“He’s your brother… could’ve fooled me, did fool me in fact.”

They were at the Chinese restaurant, the cabbie case concluded, with a pot of chow-mein between them. Sherlock was high on the success of the case and on acquiring a suitable flat-mate (the latter was a greater achievement). John Watson wasn’t boring, wasn’t squeamish and had just shot a man for him!

And the best part was, he understood Sherlock, his addiction to the game, how he got his kicks. Much of the reason was that he got his kicks the same way.

It was an unlikely partnership but it worked, because like opposing pieces of a jigsaw, they somehow fit together. John was nothing like him or Mycroft, and he found all his previous perceptions of a possible, future imaginary friend severely challenged. Even in his wildest dreams, he had never imagined a friend like John Watson!

But he HAD imagined someone like Irene Adler. The Woman was an exact prototype of a companion that he had always carried around in his mind (sexual overtures apart). So of course, he had been thrilled to meet her.

And when that had gone spectacularly south, he watched how John Watson made the choice of lying to him for his own sake, to save Sherlock from himself.

Not saving Irene had never been an option, not out of some archaic concept like love, but simply because it would have been the waste of a magnificent intellect. He just couldn’t stand by and watch it happen.

But John would never understand that. He would see it as a betrayal, as choosing to save Jim’s accomplice. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes too found himself lying to someone,  _ **to spare his feelings.**_ A lie of omission, but a lie nonetheless.

And then, there had been Henry with his Hound. That first time in Dewer’s Hollow, Sherlock's rational world was turned upside down. Nothing had made sense. And then, true to form, he had driven away the one person who gave a damn. He could almost hear Mycroft drawling, ‘Well done Sherlock!’

He made up with John the next morning before he even realised what he was doing and in the process discovered something new and frightening about himself. He simply couldn’t stand the sight of John walking away from him.

And after all that, watching Falkland morph into Moriarty at the Hollow, had been the last straw for his fragile psyche.

***

“Sherlock!” John called, as he knocked on the door to their room. They had returned from the moor together. Sherlock had instantly retired to their room. John had stayed at the bar to share a pint with Lestrade. But when Dr. Mortimer had joined them, he had felt like a third wheel, and decided to get some much needed rest.

 

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John assumed he must be already asleep, and retrieved a spare key from Billy to get into the room. The first thing he noticed when he opened the door was that the room was pitch dark, with the curtains drawn over the closed windows. Sherlock’s bed was on the far side of the room. John stifled a loud yawn as he made his way to the bathroom to change, before bed.

 

That was when someone slammed into him bodily and tackled him to the floor, his bum shoulder hitting the ground first. All air rushed out of his lungs, before he could open his mouth to cry for help. He was just about to attempt flipping his attacker, when the man spoke literally into his ear, “Not very smart, Jim… You’re lucky, John isn’t here. He would have shot you on sight! Then again, I don’t plan on you having such an easy death.”

 

John couldn’t help but gasp… it was Sherlock! Bloody Sherlock, holding him so tight that he was cutting off circulation. In the next instant, a hand was clamped over his mouth, as his flat-mate’s voice once again caressed his ear, “Did you think that I wouldn’t see you in the Hollow? Big mistake!”

 

Fuck! Sherlock was strong, and thought he was Moriarty, and if the pressure over his windpipe increased any further, his neck was going to snap. Suddenly John realised, he was still holding the torch in his left hand, which he had been in the process of removing from his jacket while heading to the bathroom.

 

He frantically wiggled his fingers, and switched it on, the beam of light suddenly shooting out between him and Sherlock, and illuminating both their faces.

 

Sherlock blinked once, then gave an audible cry, as this time he threw himself away from John, and then proceeded to scramble as far away as possible.

 

John was coughing as he got to his feet, but the first thing he did was to flip on every light switch in the room. In the illuminated room, he could now see Sherlock, cowering against the far wall, knees drawn up to the chest, visibly trembling, face hidden behind his hands...

 

John slowly approached him, not knowing if Sherlock was still locked in a drug-induced hallucination. But his friend didn’t react as John settled in the floor next to him, and wordlessly pried his hands away from his face. Sherlock’s eyes were tightly closed as if he was afraid to open them… 

 

“Hey, Sherlock… it’s ok now. It’s just the drug…you had a bad reaction, that’s all. Come on.” 

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. They were blood-shot and re-rimmed. His voice was shaking, “How can you say that it’s alright? I nearly strangled you. Even Henry had been exposed multiple times, before he went homicidal. Don’t you get it? There’s something seriously wrong with me…” He gritted his teeth, “Get away from me John, while you still can!”

 

Suddenly, Sherlock found that his face was held between two warm hands, forcing him to look into John’s deep blue eyes. “Sherlock, there’s NOTHING wrong with you! It’s the drug, not you… you didn’t attack me…You attacked Moriarty, which was an entirely rational reaction! It proves that you are more than just sane. It proves that you are morally sound, and insanely brave. I’m proud to call you my friend…and I’m NOT GOING ANYWHERE… Put THAT in your mind-palace!”

 

Then John wrapped both his hands around Sherlock, and hugged his friend for the first time.

 

That was when Sherlock understood something very important about himself. He may be a sociopath, a freak, a monster who manipulated people, who could cry on cue; a selfish arse who had no desire to understand either sentiment or emotion.

He may be all of the above and much more, but unlike before, he was no longer alone…

 

THE END...

**Author's Note:**

> 'On Generation and Corruption' - the book that Mycroft was reading, is a work of Aristotle.


End file.
